Malignancy
by Blorcyn
Summary: After the defeat of You-Know-Who, Wizarding Britain raises Hogwarts' age of admission to 17. Harry begins his adventure as a young adult, and when a butterfly flaps its wings . . .
1. Prologue

**A/N:** A story materialises:

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 **Wizengamot Ratifies Educational Decree Six**

 **Education for wizards and witches raised to seventeen.**

 _By Rita Skeeter._

 _January 21st, 1982._

The Wizengamot voted to raise the minimum age for magical education from 11 to 17 last night with a majority of 57 in favour to 13 against. The educational decree implements a controversial measure to conserve magical education until wizards and witches have reached the age of majority.

The Wizengamot presided over the decision to enact the decree after the minister's quick use of both the Commons and Lords stamps in their capacity as a 'sober thought'.

The decree responds to public campaigning to return education to a mode more common before the Wizard's Council rose to power in the thirteenth century, when magical knowledge was entrusted to those who had already completed years of mundane studies.

Responding to questions that the quick decree stamping is a response to shore up her position in the face of increasing pressure from the ICW after the many statute breaches following last year's fall of You-Know-Who, Minister Bagnold said:

" _I reassert our inalienable right to party. If the ICW wants to take my hat then they can eat it. This decree represents the collective will of British wizards and witches_."

Asked about the ratification of the decree and the Chief Warlock's decision not to call for serendipity, after an opposing vote of thirteen, the minister continued,

" _The wumps each gave a great accounting of themselves but ultimately proponent Malfoy was able to prove to his wizengamot colleagues that this was the mandate of the wizards and witches of this great country. It's been eighty years since we last saw a malignancy and it'll all turn out to be one big augurey call, mark my words_."

When pressed for commentary Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore's junior aide, Ignatius Pratt, had this to say,

" _Professor Dumbledore has no comment at this time. Why are you writing my name? Why are writing that? Stop that_."

Speaking in the chamber after the Diaspora, victor Abraxas Malfoy humbly minimised his own role in the proceedings, setting out the reasons for his impassioned championing of the new decree.

" _Today's verdict was a victory for British wizards and witches, and an argument of such importance that I had to get into the duelling circle myself. My opponent, Ben Drake, may have argued admirably but I . . ._ " **Article cont'd pg. 4.**

* * *

 _Wednesday 4th September, 1991._

JP was sat at the back of his form room, rocking back on two legs of a dirty, plastic chair. He was listening disinterestedly to the conversation between two of his oldest friends from St. Mary's primary school who were talking about their summer adventures.

He looked around at the filling classroom. There was a slightly uneven split of girls and boys at the moment which made JP tut. Although he wasn't particularly interested in girls yet, he liked that he was the only one brave enough to ask the pretty ones out. He got a lot of rep from his friends for the number of girlfriends he'd had.

Everyone was dressed in new Stonewall High uniforms, grey cotton jumpers and grey cotton trousers with a white shirt and navy blue tie. JP had never had to wear a tie before and found it quite uncomfortable - and looking at a number of the other boys rubbing their necks and tugging their ties he could tell he was not the only one who thought so.

The class of thirty was pretty much full now with only three or four chairs empty and it had been a couple of minutes since a kid had walked through the door. Looking toward the front of the class he could see his – no, Mr. Mottershead had noticed the same thing. He was shuffling the papers on his desk, something he only did when he was waiting to begin. For a second he caught JP's eye before looking away sharply.

"And it was really gruesome! There was blood everywhere!" said Tim. JP's head swivelled owlishly toward his friend Tim.

"What did?" He said.

"The guy who was cliff jumping. Yeah, it was really gruesome, they had to hair lift him out the sea because he was so hurt and then mum said we couldn't do it anymore which was a bit stupid if you ask me because me and Baz had already done it twice before and we were fine." said Tim.

"Wait, hair lift? Baz?" said JP.

"Yeah, it's where they lift you up by an air ambulance, they have to put this big red box around your hair first before they can pull you up. Yeah, and Baz, my friend from Butlins. Weren't you listening?" Tim frowned at him.

With avowals that he had, in fact, been listening JP turned back and made more effort to respond to Tim and Steve's conversation. As such, he didn't notice the new student that had walked in until a hush settled on the class as it quieted to watch the teacher tell off the late student.

"Harry, sir. Harry Potter," piped the boy in response to some unheard question. His voice was high and quite quiet and JP gave him a quick look over. Although it was obvious he was fairly small, his outfit made it difficult to be sure exactly.

He was wearing the most unusual grey jumper JP had ever seen, twice as wide as he was tall and folded like a rhino's skin. It looked as coarse as steel wool and was completely plain, lacking the Stonewall High badge or the stitching down the sides and extending down past his hips to mid-thigh. His trousers were almost as bad, the hem stuck under the heel of his shoe and caked in mud. They were the same scratchy grey, and he'd later observe that Harry had to tug them up at the waist with a free hand whenever he took more than a few steps. The jumper hid any sight of a tie, but in keeping with the rest of his outfit a large white collar extended up almost to his jaw.

A small head with messy black hair and horn-rimmed glasses completed the image and was currently looking timidly down at the ground while he was addressed by Mr. Mottershead.

"O.K. Harry, a pleasure to meet you. Now, again, why are you late?" he said.

"I'm sorry, sir. I couldn't find the school bus stop so I had to get a public bus and erm, and it was, there was traffic and it got here late." said Harry.

"Harry, you realise that Stonewall High has a school uniform and rules regarding lateness, don't you? Do you think these rules don't apply to you?" Mr Mottershead stared down at Harry from behind his desk but Harry was resolutely focused on his shoes. "I'm expecting an answer, Harry." he said.

"Yes sir, I'm sorry sir, but -" said Harry.

"But what, exactly?" he said. JP was in the right position to see Harry glance furtively at the class, most of whom were watching the spectacle avidly. After a few moments Harry spoke slowly, as if the words were being dragged from him by force.

"My aunt says that my cousin's old clo-"

"Enough, Harry. Go and take the seat over here at the front, please" said Mr. Mottershead. Harry obliged, and the class resumed normal chatter. JP, however, was watching the teacher's face whose eyebrows were furrowed in that way they got when he was watching a murder mystery. He wondered what he was piecing together.

It wasn't long before Mr. Mottershead rose to stand in front of the white board. He clapped his hands a couple of times to get their attention before diving into his speech.

"Seven MH, welcome to Stonewall High. I am Mr. Mottershead and I am your form teacher, as I'm sure you remember from your taster day. Now. . ." He carried on, explaining the do's and don'ts and what they'd be doing in their first week at the school. When he was finished he invited them to go to assembly.

There was a clatter of chairs and a sudden swell in the volume of chatter as students forced their way out the door in a big press. JP was near the back of the line and he followed them out into the darkness of the block corridor. He'd just turned left to go down the stairs when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw Mr. Mottershead in the empty corridor.

"What's up, Dad?" asked JP.

"Jon-Paul, please. At school it's Mr. Mottershead. We've discussed this, I'm taking your set for English and we don't want other students thinking you get preferential treatment."

"Sorry, Dad. No, I'm just joking, I will. Don't worry. Is that everything, can I get going now? I'm losing everyone."

"No, that's not everything. I want you to do something for me Jon-Paul, did you see Harry Potter? The little boy in the big uniform?" said his Dad.

"Yeah, what about him?" said JP.

"I want you to try and include him, get to know him, see if he's someone you'd like."

"Awwww. Mr. Mottershead, he looks like someone who smells." He wrinkled his nose here before continuing "And you said how important it is for me to make friends in my first week here."

"Jon-Paul, you are one of the most cocksure, chatty year sevens I've ever known. That won't be a problem and I'll really appreciate you doing this. Maybe I could even convince your mother to cook something that doesn't involve pasta." He winked at his son who laughed.

"Fine, but why are you so interested anyway?" asked JP.

"I'll tell you at home, now come-on you're going to be late for your first assembly and I'd hate to disappoint the headmaster." he said. He took a step forward and then stopped again, "Oh, and Jon-Paul, the things your mother and I say about the headmaster at home, they're not to be repeated, okay?" JP nodded and they took another step on. "Ever." Mr. Mottershead said. John-Paul laughed and they walked quickly, off to assembly.

* * *

 _Monday 2nd August, 1993:_

"Vernon!"

"Marge," Vernon grunted. Marge looked at her brother, his big purple face and impeccable moustache twitching as he blustered through a greeting. She offered him each cheek and he gave her a couple of perfunctory pecks.

"Take this and make yourself useful, Vernon," said Marge then shoved her suitcase into her brother's gut. Marjorie made a quick tutting sound and scooped up Ripper who'd been conducting his business against the wall of the station. They exchanged wet little kisses while Vernon hauled her luggage to the trunk of his grey saloon.

It took a quarter of an hour to drive from Staines to Little Whinging and most of the trip was spent in silence. Marge and Vernon had never been the closest of siblings. Marge had always thought that Vernon, as the second child, had been coddled by their parents and he for his part had never quite forgiven her for using their parent's estate to finance her bulldog breeding. That was the problem with Vernon, he lacked the sort of moral fortitude that you found in great men, like Colonel Fubster (Colonel Fubster dealt with things as they were! Not as he wished them to be. He was not the type to take something lying down, oh no!). Vernon was coddled, irresolute and pliant in the face of difficulty. Middle management sort through and through.

As they traveled down Magnolia Crescent and turned onto Privet Drive Marge raked her eyes over the orderly hedges and beige brick houses. Marge sniffed. Marge was vocal about the benefits of country life but if she were forced to live in urban squalor Little Whinging would be as close to her minimum standard as one was likely to find.

They pulled up on the drive and Marge allowed Vernon to open her door and fetch her luggage. She walked to the door and waited for Vernon, but before he could get there the door was pulled open by a scrawny boy with messy black hair.

"Where's my Dudders? Where's my neffy poo?" Cooed Marge. Dudley appeared from further down the hallway. He was dressed in a pale shirt with blue squares all over it and a small multicoloured dicky-bow. His wet hair had been combed to one side with a neat side parting. He smiled a small, shy smile up at her and Marge swooped down on him with a kiss. She stood and gave the little cherub a fresh note like usual, her brother and sister-in-law were entirely too miserly with their young son.

She stepped past her nephew and exchanged kisses with Petunia. She stood a head taller than Petunia and looked down on her straw coloured hair and floral blouse. Petunia had always been a presentable woman with unsavoury connections - her parents eccentric, her sister a hippy deadbeat. Marge had always been a smidge concerned that beneath the respectable veneer there lay some hereditary populist stain or baseness that would tarnish her brother and nephew. Petunia knew this, Marge had never been afraid to share her thoughts.

Vernon came in behind them and they went for tea and fruitcake. They spent a while discussing the farm and her bulldogs, Colonel Fubster and Grunnings. They were back to discussing Colonel Fubster when the fourth occupant of the house came sauntering in.

He was a small child still, but he'd grown noticeably in the three years since she'd last seen him. Messy, unkempt black hair and horn rimmed glasses were at odds with a relatively new royal blue jumper and matching jeans.

Marge was aware from holiday messages over the last few years that the boy had somehow drawn the social services into her brother's life. Monthly visits had done their bit to alter the dynamic in the house and the boy's smarmy face showed that he knew it.

"So!" she barked from her place at the table. "Still here, are you?" Ripper had begun growling at the boy as he sat, rudely ignoring that Vernon and Petunia were still standing.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Don't look at the table, boy, meet my eyes when I'm talking to you. (You mustn't let him throw his weight around, Vernon, it gives him ideas). It was damn good of Vernon and Petunia to take you in, boy. Wouldn't have done it myself, you'd have been gone long before you had a chance to start mongering malicious lies. It wouldn't kill you to express some gratitude."

The boy looked up into her eyes and his face twisted into a broad smirk that made Marge shoot upright in her chair, her bottom lip and chin twitching.

"Don't you smirk at me!" she boomed. "I can see you've hardly improved since I last saw you. I had hoped school would knock some manners into you. Where do you send him again, Vernon?" She took the opportunity to take a big mouthful of cake.

"Stonewall High," said Vernon. "It's the local comprehensive."

"I see," said Marge. She took a moment to glug down a mouthful of tea. "And do they use the cane at Stonewall High?"

"Erm, no, Aunt Marge. I think that's illegal now," said the boy.

"Such namby-pamby, wishy-washy nonsense. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred a good thrashing is what's needed. It's certainly what you'd deserve boy, if you go about speaking to your teachers and your betters in that tone. I imagine they're sub-par educators there. Of course, it's all wasted effort on you. Is he an under-achiever Vernon, did he fail his eleven-plus?" Marge turned, ignoring the boy completely.

"Well, Stonewall is hardly Smeltings, but that being said." Vernon paused and leaned back, almost bracing himself against the kitchen countertop. His tongue schlurped across his teeth and he let out a little hiss, like a kettle on the boil. "That being said, his performance there is not completely terrible. Hard working, aren't you, boy? We're just pleased he's not displaying the same . . . disorderliness his parents did, Marge."

The boy in question grimaced and failed to hide an angry frown from his uncle.

"Still, for all our hard work, he's an ungrateful, spiteful boy at times. We've enrolled him in the Air Cadets this summer, Marge, with hope they can instill some discipline in him." he said.

"Well, you've done what you can Vernon but with the best will in the world, bad blood will out. Only time will tell with this one. Personally, I think there's entirely too much Potter in him and not enough Evans," said Marge. Petunia let a sniff out at that and the boy turned his head away so that Marge couldn't see his face.

"May I be excused, Uncle Vernon. I've still got a lot of summer work to do," he said. Vernon grunted and the boy disappeared in a flash of black hair, the sounds of him stomping up the stairs coming through the roof. Petunia tutted and Marge harrumphed.

Vernon turned the topic to the escaped prisoner who'd dominated the news that morning and the family and Marge followed Dudley into the front room to spend the night discussing the merits of capital and corporal punishment.

Aunt Marge spent the next week making herself at home. She did what she could to make herself useful, directing Petunia around the household and offering an educated perspective to the work Vernon brought home with him.

She also did her best to spoil Dudley, to encourage him to enjoy his childhood while he could and found herself quite comfortable at the Dursleys, but for one exception: Harry Potter. Petunia's nephew was quite simply the most ignorant young child she had ever known. Squirrelled away in his bedroom 'doing homework' he attempted to avoid her at every opportunity.

Marge tried to provide him with some oversight, getting Ripper to chase him downstairs and out the house but as the week passed she found herself becoming more and more irritated by his snark and by the Dursley's inexplicable permissiveness.

Before long, it was Saturday and her final night with her brother's family. Petunia had thrown everything she had into a fancy dinner of soup, salmon and lemon meringues with a little cream.

Vernon prattled on discussing Grunnings and some timeshare he'd been turned onto in the orkneys ('Beautiful Scenery, Marge! Beautiful scenery!'). Marge nodded, and umpahed in the right parts but the otherwise pleasant ambience was marred, spoiled by the dark-haired boy sat on the far end of the table.

Head down, his dark, green eyes fluttered around the table as they spoke - judging them. His contempt and arrogance were increasingly apparent as they moved from coffee to brandy.

Petunia was still sipping her coffee and Dudley, the little cherub, was intent on a second helping of meringue.

"I do like to see a healthy sized boy, Petunia." said Marge, "You'll be a proper-sized man, Dudders, like your father. Yes, a spot more, a little more. Thank you. What was I saying?" On the far end of the table Marge saw the boy smirking behind his hand, at herself or Dudley she didn't know. The fire that she had been tending this last week flared up with a burning intensity.

"Now this one -" spat Marge.

"Marge -" said Petunia, quietly.

"No, no. It needs to be said if he's to get any sense of his place, dear. I've seen it before on the farm. He's got a mean, runty look about it. It happens sometimes, bad blood will out.

"Now I'm saying nothing against your family, Petunia dear-" She patted Petunia's hand a couple of times reassuringly, to ease her pinched expression, "but your sister was a bad egg. Happens in the best of families! Then she ran off with a wastrel and here's the result in front of us." The boy was staring intently at the patterned tablecloth, his jaw clenched. Marge felt a streak of satisfaction.

"This Potter," said Marge, pouring herself a little more brandy, "you never told me what he did?"

Vernon spluttered for a moment, obviously uncomfortable with the topic - the man had no presence, not like Colonel Fubster - and the rest of the table was tense waiting for an answer to the taboo question.

"He - didn't work," said Vernon.

"As I expected." Marge took a moment to savour her brandy. "A no-account, good-for-nothing, lazy scrounger who took his earnings from the charity and the pity of other, more sensible folk." The boy was shaking, white in the face and Marge swooped in for the kill.

"Go on, boy. Something to say? Proud of your parents are you? They go and get themselves killed in a car crash, drunk I expect, and leave you to be a burden on decent folk. Like father, like son! You are insolent! You are ungrateful! You are a little-!"

"MARJORIE!" Vernon smashed his hand down on the table, propelling himself to feet. "You are distressing my wife. You will stop this. Stop it! Harry, your room, go to your room now!" The boy was gone before Vernon had finished speaking, dodging Ripper who had joined the noise and was jumping at the patio door, barking madly.

The boy gone, Vernon sat and a tenseness settled on the room. Even Dudders was hunched and doing his best not to meet anyone's eyes. Petunia stood and started clearing the plates and Vernon stood to help her, while Ripper settled into a deep growl.

"What's Ripper doing, Aunt Marge?" asked Dudley in an attempt at diplomacy while his parents bustled around the kitchen silently.

"I imagine he's sensed a neighbour's dog. He never likes dogs that are bigger than him, the little fusspot," said Marge, brusquely.

"Our neighbours don't have any dogs," said Dudley.

Marge turned to look through the screen door and saw bright amber eyes fading into the hedge at the bottom of the garden. Unsettled, she swept Ripper up onto her lap and fussed him.

Marge left the next morning and didn't visit again for quite a long time.

* * *

 _Saturday June 15th, 1996:_

"Book down, Harry. We're almost there. Tim. Tim! Wake up you big brick." Liam elbowed the large teen in his ribs but got little response. Tim was sound asleep, head bouncing on the rumbling carriage window. He looked back over toward Harry who was digging around his sports bag trying to fit the thick book back in. "Seriously, you'd think I'd accidentally gotten on an OAP tour bus, the way you two have been behaving. We're in Manchester, boys, it's about livin' it large! They don't even check for I.D here. Oh for f- Tim!"

"I am sorry, Liam. It's almost as if we're taking a jaunt to Manchester in the middle of our GCSEs, isn't it? Oh, wait," said Harry. He looked up at Liam sternly, but a smile took any sting out of his words.

"It's study leave, innit, you're into all that Forces bullshit. You should know what leave is. Anyway, it's hardly the middle, we've got what? D&T and English Lit? That's nothing." said Liam.

"Believe it or not Lee, I actually quite like English, I need to do well if Ms. Ridgeway's going to let me into her A-level class," said Harry.

"Eh, you'll be fine Harry, you're a smart bloke. And, when have I ever led you astray?"

"Well, there was time you said camping was the place to pull women, and it was all old couples and ramblers," said Tim.

"Ah, awake now are you? Great. Cheers. And it was obvious I meant festivals, I don't normally go camping with ramblers like a numpty," said Liam.

"How about the time you said you knew a guy who knew a guy who gave out box tickets for the gunners for cheap?" Asked Harry.

"Demand exceeded supply. Geez, let he who is without sin and all that." Tim and Harry laughed and Liam took the opportunity to look out the window as they travelled through the centre of Manchester. The majority of the buildings seemed red brick and industrial and the grey sky lent the whole place an atmosphere of abandonment. It was quite depressing.

Catching his reflection in the window, he looked at his blondey-brown hair and tried to push his fringe back up.

"Alright nobheads, I can see our platform, shall we go stand by the door?" Said Liam. Shouldering their bags the three of them worked their way down the aisle to the door, swaying and stumbling as the train came to a stop. Door opening, they stepped out into a swirling mass of people of all colours and shapes jostling and barging their way around them. Disorientated, and a bit lost under the enormity of the high vaulted station Liam pulled the others off a bit looking for a place where he could get his bearings.

"Tim! Tim, you lanky prick!" Came a faint voice. Over the top of various heads Liam saw a hand waggling back and forth furiously in the distance, beckoning them over. The trio made their way through the ticket barriers and their faces broke into broad smiles as they caught sight of their old friend.

"Mamma mia, it's the freakina pope-a," said Liam.

"That gets funnier every time you do it, Liam. Harry. Tim." Amid a round of back slapping and howdy doos Liam stood back to look at how his friend had changed over the last year. He'd gained a couple of inches over Liam but was still short of Tim's 6' 4" and the gain was most noticeable when he stood next to Harry, the smallest of their group.

The permatan of JP's Italian skin contrasted against Harry's paleness and his immaculate appearance against Harry's general scruffiness and wild hair, and it was with a bit of surprise Liam noticed that where once Harry had been skinny he now had the lean but relatively muscular body of a decent sprinter. When had Liam become the butters of the group?

Harry turned to Liam having noticed his looking and Liam turned away from the unsettling vividness of Harry's green eyes. They didn't look bloody real.

"What's up?" Asked Harry.

"Nothing, don't matter. JP what are we doing about food? I'm starving," said Liam.

"My Dad gave me fifty quid just for food this weekend, pretty generous, so I was thinking some KFC now and then maybe Marks & Sparks for some nice nosh tomorrow and the day after. Have you guys got a decent amount of money for this weekend? Harry, is your Uncle still a twat?" said JP.

"No he's been all right about this, he gave me a bit of money so I wouldn't be a burden on your Mum and Dad. I didn't tell him they weren't here this weekend." said Harry. He raised a hand to ruffle the back of his hair, uncomfortable. Even though they all knew about Harry's home life Liam knew that he didn't like the pity that came with talking about it. "My Uncle just follows my Aunt's lead and they've been getting better year on year. It's not as bad as it used to be."

Taking the hint Liam and the others turned the conversation to more pleasant topics – girls and cars and girls on top of cars as they made their way up the high street. They got some fried chicken and then continued up towards Mark's and Spencer's.

"So," said JP, awkwardly, "Where's Steve? I spoke to him on Tuesday and he said he was coming still."

"Yeah, I'm not sure, it's sad really," said Harry, "He's not been hanging out with us that much since you left, he mainly hangs around with Aidan and that lot. What's going on here?"

They had quite suddenly found themselves on the back end of a dense crowd and couldn't move any further. It filled the entire width of the high street and seemed to extend a way ahead of them.

"Tim, can you see what's going on?" Asked JP. Tim shook his head in reply. "Harry do you reckon you can squeeze up there and see what's going on?" Harry shrugged, but made his way forward into the crowd and was quickly lost to Liam's sight.

"Street performer, maybe?" Said Tim.

"No, probably not, they're lucky if they get two people. It'd have to be Oasis themselves to get a crowd like this," said JP.

They waited a few minutes before Liam could pick out Harry returning, shoving and leaping through gaps to make his way back. His green eyes were wide, and he was looking Liam dead in the eye mouthing something.

"What's he sayi- urgh"

The world suddenly slipped out of view, taking the crowd and the high street with it, as the sky jumped down to make a new horizon. The cobbled pavement joined in too, slipping out from beneath his feet to leap up viciously and strike Liam once, then twice in the face. All the air left him a great rush and then he realised a great pressure that had been squeezing every part of him was suddenly gone, and the echoes of a great roar were rebounding off the walls around him.

There was a moment of silence before the noise of voices, screams, children crying began. The volume was shocking against the pulsing in Liam's head, and he pushed himself up off the cobbles unsteadily. His ear was throbbing and his cheek was sore. He felt a wetness trickling down over his eyebrow and reached up to find hot, sticky blood.

He looked around and saw Tim lying on his back looking up at the sky, he blinked and it was obvious he was OK. JP was already stood up and looking around. Fully half the crowd was back on their feet now, but Liam couldn't spot Harry.

"Where's Harry?" he croaked, barely louder than a whisper. He swallowed and tried again. "Where's Harry?!" His voice came stronger now and he felt more steady on his feet.

"I'm behind you." said Harry, who then stepped quickly in front of him. "Is everyone OK?" Harry himself looked the most composed of all them. There was just a little blood down his top and at the bottom of his face.

"What happened?" Said JP.

"There was a bomb in a white van, but the police were dealing with it. I don't know what happened. I was facing the wrong way and went nose first into the cobbles," said Harry.

Looking toward where Harry was pointing Liam could see a plume of acrid black smoke rising into the sky. The faces of the shops immediately next to the blast were completely wrecked and even from here Liam could see fragments of glass and brick lining the street.

"What's the matter with Tim?" Harry pointed out. Liam turned back to see Tim was still on his back but had now begun to shiver as if very cold.

"Oh shit. Liam, JP give me your jackets," said Harry. Both of them followed his orders and watched as Harry raised Tim's legs onto his knee and wrapped them in their jackets.

Paramedics and Police flooded in before too long, and eventually Tim and the other three were taken to a nearby hospital to be checked over. It took a number of hours before they were seen to and by then Liam was quite bored of the entire thing. He was the last of the group to be taken into a booth and was tired and grumpy.

The doctor, a tall man with glasses and a little bald on top, instructed him to jump up on a bed. He introduced himself as Kevin Mackway-Jones, and began with a few standard questions before Liam interrupted him.

"I don't understand, doctor. The paramedics checked me for concussion and said I was fine. And I feel fine, can you not just sign me off?" The doctor protested otherwise, citing pressure waves and pleura and other inscrutable things. He assured Liam it wouldn't take very long at all. An hour later, he was free to leave with a clean bill of health.

Outside the door Harry was leaning against a wall, waiting for him.

"Everything O.K with you?"

"Yeah, I've got to go into my local A&E if I feel dizzy or anything, but I should be fine. You?" Asked Liam.

"They said I had a 'remarkable constitution or incredible luck' as, apart from my nose, I was completely fine. Tim's parents have taken him home, they were a bit worried. JP is just meeting his folks because they're pulling in now but he said he won't leave till we're gone and there was a phone call from your dad to say he's almost here."

"What are you doing, Harry?"

"I was going catch a train, but your dad asked me the same thing and said he'd take me back. He was quite insistent," said Harry.

"Good. Good," said Liam.

They went and sat down in the waiting area. After a little while JP and his parents came and joined them and they made polite conversation on and off until just after midnight, Mr. Mottershead interested to know how his two former students were getting along. When Liam's dad arrived he was enthusiastically thankful to everyone involved and fussed over his son, which embarrassed him quite a lot. However, it didn't last long as they had to get off back down to Surrey.

Liam's dad mostly drove in silence and Liam spent a lot of the trip staring out at the motorway lights, watching the shadows through the window as they shrunk, diminished then flicked back with each light. On the other side of the car Harry was doing something similar, staring darkly into the shadows of his footwell.

As they entered Surrey, Liam's dad spoke,

"Almost home safe now, boys. All this IRA business is awful. Terrorism, boys. You can't fight fear," he said.

"I disagree," said Harry, quietly.

"What was that?" His Dad quizzed. Harry continued to stare at something only he could see, and Liam said nothing.

* * *

 _Saturday July 19th, 1997._

Harry opened his eyes and saw the flaky white ceiling of his bedroom. He looked at his chirping alarm clock. He pressed snooze.

Harry opened his eyes and saw the ugly green paint of his bedroom wall. He looked at his chirping alarm clock. He pressed snooze.

Harry opened his eyes and saw his pillow. His face was nestled deep and as he groaned and pulled his head out he became aware of the stickiness of drool, clinging to his cheek. He turned and sat up against his headboard. Switching off the alarm clock he yawned then yawned again before glaring fuzzily at the cupboard opposite his bed, daring it to try something. He stretched and shook each leg, flexed his left shoulder, then his right and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Existential check complete, he slid out of bed and made his way to the toilet. Considering the hour, his aim wasn't too bad and he got it in on the second try. The window above the cistern was ajar and through it Harry heard the sound of lawn mowers and smelled cut grass and something he couldn't identify. The sun found its way inside as well and its rays warmed his face as he turned to greet it. Harry smiled at the quintessential little slice of suburban England. Through the wall to his right he heard Dudley let rip a cracking fart and the illusion was broken.

He washed his hands, wiped his foot then made his way downstairs. Harry's Aunt Petunia was already up, enjoying the short amount of peace she'd have before her husband and son woke. She was sat on her spindly wooden chair at the dining room table and she pursed her lips at him as he passed. He mumbled something civil and headed to the fridge to root around.

Harry was investigating the firmness of a cherry tomato when there came the distinctive clank of the letter box and he leapt straight.

"I'll get it!" He shouted. He walked briskly, eagerly, down the corridor to get the mail before Petunia. Back in the kitchen he sorted through the seven letters, placing them down on the kitchen counter-top as he classified them. "Bill. Bill. Bill. Biii-junk. Bill." He paused at the next letter.

It was a curious envelope, in many ways. It was weighty and seemed to be made from something thicker and coarser than normal paper, in the top right corner was a strange crest of arms of a shield split into four quarters, one quarter bearing a lion, another a snake, another a badger and the last an eagle.

The address looked handwritten in an emerald green ink, and he was named as the recipient. He flipped it over and ripped through the top of the envelope with a finger.

 _Dear Mr. H. Potter,_

 _You are cordially invited to attend Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, situ -_

Harry crumpled the letter into a ball and dropped it into the bin. "Junk. Ohh, hello." He had in his hand a much more conventional envelope that was franked by the Ministry of Defence. Again he ripped it open and quickly read the contents. "Exceptional results. . . satisfactory medical assessment . . . assess leadership qualities . . . pursuant to a minimum requirement of pass graded A-levels. Petunia! Petunia! I'm in, I'm going to be a pilot!"

Petunia put down her tea and Harry could see her sour face was torn on to how to react, and when she was feeling conflicted Harry knew how she'd default.

"Well, that'll show Mrs. Jones at number 8. She thinks she can act all snooty because her son's studying engineering. Well, we have an _h_ Officer, oooh I'll tell her at the next neighbourhood watch meeting and everyone will see her big head deflate. Oh, Harry, before long you could outstrip Marge's colonel and she'd have to admit she could learn something about good raising from Vernon, for once. And about time I should say so, too. Oh, Harry, Be quiet. Carrying on like that. You'll wake your cousin."

Harry did his best to ignore her before running up to his room to secret away his acceptance letter whilst in the darkness of the bin a sorrily wrinkled envelope did its best to straighten itself and its contents.

"Bit rude, I'd say," it said, addressing the rubbish around it. It waited a moment expectantly but on receiving no reply settled down to wait.

* * *

 **A/N:** Let me know what you think.

I finally named this Malignancy. Hogwarts University seemed too gauche.


	2. Chapter 1 - A morning with no breakfast

**A/N:** The second chapter, that I've prewritten, the rest will have to be fresh. I hope there's enough to gain your interest.

* * *

 **A morning with no breakfast.**

The next Saturday morning found Harry awake at seven sizzling up some bacon in the kitchen by himself. Weekend mornings meant fried food and a quick escape outdoors while Vernon and Dudley snored upstairs and, used to the routine, Petunia was content to let him do what he wanted as long as she got a cup of tea and a bit of peace in the front room.

Dudley's sly punches and piggy eyes this last week had hardly bothered Harry at all. An absence of cruelty at Number Four would have made the whole thing feel quite unreal. And, anyway, he had encouraged Petunia to crow on the Dursley's role in his improved prospects with almost every dinner. The reflected glory that found its way to him needled Dudley and Harry enjoyed that immensely.

Harry took in a deep lungful of smoky, cooking bacon and leaned against the kitchen countertop. Outside, sunlight showed flowering Daffodils.

A sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door knocker disturbed the peace. He frowned, it was at least an hour too early for the postman.

"Harry! Door!" Snapped Petunia, her voice shrill.

"I'm cooking!" Harry shouted back. From beyond the double doors the recliner gave out a twang of defeat. She grumbled and her slippers dragged over the carpet irritatingly toward the front door. Harry sighed. God forbid she should have to answer her own front door when there was a skivvy nearby. The door unlocked with a click and gave a sort of heavy swoosh as it opened.

"Hello Pet -" Said an unfamiliar, but unmistakably male, voice. That was all it was able to get out before there came a terrified shriek and the slam of the door. Harry jumped up, already running toward the front door.

His aunt was pulling her dressing gown across herself as she backed away from the door like it was all that stood between her and the devil himself. She was pale and shaking her head and something was terribly, terribly wrong.

"What is it? Who's out there?!" Asked Harry. Petunia turned to stare at him, her lips pressed tight, refusing to speak. Another sharp knock came and Petunia literally jumped half a foot into the air. She snaked a bony hand out and gripped Harry's arm with white knuckles. Harry wasn't used to seeing his aunt look this small. "Who is it, Aunt Petunia?!" asked Harry.

Still, she refused to speak. Instead, her free hand pointed at the door.

A green tinge subtly illuminated the entire door before being sucked towards the bolts the key and the deadlock becoming darker and more _real_. Within the space of a second the strange sheen was gone. Harry's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. _What had he just seen?_ Before he could ask the deadlock's chain gave a little jink of movement and a wave seemed to run through it, of its own accord.

The various locks began to turn, and draw, and slither by themselves, pulling back until they were all undone. As soon as the door was unlocked the deadlock's traitorous little chain fell and went limp while the key practically leapt from its place to land on the doormat.

Harry stood perfectly still, the moment stretching out. If he didn't move, if nobody moved, it hadn't happened - it wasn't real. It dragged on, until, as if to add insult to injury, that same knock rang out again from the other side, a little softer this time. It was real. He felt hot, angry, trapped. Scared.

"Blow this." He said. He reached out and tugged the door open in one sharp movement, even as Petunia tried to pull him back.

In the door stood the most spectacularly _odd_ old man that Harry had ever seen. Tall, very tall, he had a great white beard, which reached almost to his navel. He wore a rich, purple cape, bordered by a strange pattern of blue and purple circles which followed the line of his shoulders and covered something like an old army red coat. Underneath _that_ orange and yellow striped pyjama bottoms and brown riding boots were apparent. The top end had a huge and teal flared collar drawing the eyes to half-moon spectacles on top of a long crooked nose. All together it _stung_.

"Harry, my boy, my wonderful boy. Look at how you have grown," said the strange man, "May I come in?" He stepped through the door, inspecting Harry every bit as thoroughly as Harry inspected him.

"Ahh, I see you are appreciating my muggle disguise. It is quite fabulous taken all together. The high boots quite offset the whole thing, I find." He finished with a deep, throaty sort of 'hmm' of approval and waggled his eyebrows at Harry as if taking him into his confidence.

Harry, however wasn't quite as at ease. He had been forced a step back by the old man's intrusion, he had an arm out to make sure Petunia was behind him. He could punch the old man in his nose and try to rush past him, or he could shout for Dudley and Vernon and _they_ could punch him in the nose, or he could . . .

The image of the door key betraying them flashed in his mind. Nose punching might not get them very far. And the man seemed to be content waiting for a reply.

"I'm afraid you've got the better of me. I don't know who you are, I don't know what you want and, this is what I want to stress, I don't know how you got in here," said Harry.

The old man's smile dimmed slightly for a moment there as his eyes flickered between Harry and Petunia.

"Yes, that does appear to be the case. It appears I have been most remiss, Harry, forgive me. I am Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and this most enchanting creature behind you, if I am not mistaken, is Mrs. Petunia Dursley? A pleasure Petunia, it was to my discredit that our relationship was hitherto limited to quill and parchment."

 _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

Harry began to have suspicions.

The Professor gave a deep bow as he introduced himself, long arms and long fingers cast out with practiced grace. Aunt Petunia was still speechless, although a little colour was returning to her face, and her mouth was starting to move soundlessly to build momentum for a rollicking.

"I see you are on the cusp of offering Harry and I a pot of tea, Petunia, my dear. How gracious. I take honey and lemon, if you have it. Thank You. May I close the door, Harry?" said Dumbledore.

Aunt Petunia spoke hoarsely, "For goodness sake, Harry. Get out of his way. Any one could see him from there." She began to walk to the kitchen.

"Aunt Petunia, should I go and get Uncle Vernon and Dudley?" He asked in a low voice.

"No. No. Let's just. I think. No, Harry. I need to just -"

She entered the kitchen and Dumbledore was good enough to be inspecting a framed Ordnance Survey map in the hallway as she left - ' _Marvellous, marvellous_ ' - whether he had actually heard or not.

"Far be it from me to impose, Harry, but perhaps we might begin our discussion somewhere more comfortable than the hallway. In my old age I have found it is wise to never be too distant from a cushioned seat." Harry opened the door to the sitting room but stayed standing as the professor sat.

"Why are you here?" He asked. Dumbledore seemed surprised at Harry's bluntness and his folded arms, he didn't invite Harry to sit but answered him directly. A point in his favour.

"I entrusted you to the care of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, fifteen years ago. It seemed appropriate that I be the one to bring you back, Harry."

Whatever Harry had been expecting, it wasn't that. He found himself sinking onto the arm of the couch.

"You put me here?"

Dumbledore was silent in affirmation. Harry wasn't going to fall apart, not in the face of this opportunity for answers.

"Why?" He insisted. Dumbledore was silent for a moment longer.

"It would help me better answer your questions, Harry, if I had a greater understanding of what you know about yourself, your world and your history. I expected you to know who I am. I expected you to know why I am visiting you today. It appears this is not the case."

"My world? My history? I don't know what you're asking me. I'm Harry Potter. I'm studying Physics, English Literature and Maths at Stonewall sixth form. I play centre-midfield and my preferred race is the 400 meters. I live with my Aunt and Uncle and a cousin the size of rhinoceros because I'm an orphan and I have a social worker I have to visit every three months because they all used to be kind of shitty to me! How's that? That's pretty much my about me section." Harry's voice was raised toward the end. Emphatic but not quite shouting.

Dumbledore bowed his head before Harry's pain. He looked up and his eyes were old and sorrowful. Ok, maybe Harry could fall apart, just for a minute or two.

"How did James and Lily Potter die, Harry?" said Dumbledore, softly. Aunt Petunia chose that moment to come through the double doors with a tray bearing a teapot and cups and it was to her that Harry spoke as he replied,

"James Potter was a waster and a drunk. He crashed into the central reservation at eighty miles per hour killing himself and your sister."

"Oh, Petunia," said Dumbledore, turning his gaze on her.

Petunia was shaking her head, spitting huffs in a bluster, searching for words.

"We told him what he needed to know. Maybe we changed the gory particulars but the message was the same! They died! And they died as a product of their unnatural lifestyle. A lifestyle we didn't want him growing up into. And it worked! Didn't it? He's here now, not at your school. He's not done anything freakish in years. He should be thanking us. He's got good prospects! He's got a good life ahead of him." Harry had never hated her nasal, shrill voice more than he did at that moment.

"That was in spite of you! Not because of you!" he shouted. He turned to Dumbledore, "What really happened to my parents?"

"James and Li-"

"No, wait. I want to hear it from her. Be honest with me for once in my life. What. Happened?" said Harry. Dumbledore didn't seem offended in the slightest.

"They got involved in their little civil war, even though they had a child on the way! Then predictably they went and got blown up and you landed on our doorstep."

"Blown up? What, the IRA?"

"No, you idiot! Witches, wizards, wands and curses. Teacups into Rats. Freakishness! You want me to apologise? You should be thanking me!"

Harry's face was thunderous, his eyes dark as he stared down at his aunt.

"Fuck you!" He spat.

"Harry," said Dumbledore rising to his feet and placing a hand on Petunia's shoulder, he continued, "Petunia, it would, perhaps, be best if Harry and I spoke now in private. You might wake your husband and your son and inform them that today may be accused of novelty."

Petunia gave no sign of having heard him, her eyes never leaving Harry's until she turned and stomped from the room.

Harry paced the front room. After a time he unclenched his fists and stopped.

"Thank you," said Harry, "Although, considering you put me here, perhaps I shouldn't."

"Perhaps," said Dumbledore. Harry turned to him,

"So you're really a wizard? Or witch?" He added.

"A wizard, of that I find myself most certain. The two terms have been sexed these last two centuries, much to the displeasure of the male students of Salem Witches' Institute." He said, that benign smile returning.

"And teacup rats, 'freakishness', that's all true?" asked Harry. Dumbledore reached into the sleeve of his red coat and drew what looked to be a dark wand. He jiggled both arms in Harry's direction.

"You will observe I have nothing up my sleeves. And. _Voilà!_ " A flourish and suddenly a rather pathetic, motley bunch of flowers extended from the tip of Dumbledore's wand.

"That's very impressive." He snorted, despite himself. Dumbledore beamed at him.

"Laughter has a powerful magic all its own, Harry." He said.

"I suppose so, is comedy an important subject at your school?" Harry replied.

"Unfortunately, no. A source of inexhaustible disappointment to me, I assure you." Dumbledore placed the bouquet beside himself and poured two cups of tea. Harry held his while Dumbledore sipped, it was hot to his hand and unappealing.

He was on the brink of breaking the silence when Dumbledore gestured at the bland, mudane walls of Number Four with a sweep of his long arms.

"I do not believe, my dear boy, that I am here today to convince you that you are a wizard. Nor do I think the Dursleys would thank me if I were to perform any magic more, shall we say, _grand_. No, Harry, I believe you already know who you are, what you want is knowledge of where you belong."

Harry bit down on his immediate response, his denial. Dumbledore was looking over his half-moon glasses at Harry as if to say, _think_. He thought about the strange things the Dursleys had punished him for as a child. He thought about the things he could do which he couldn't quite explain. The things he ignored because he couldn't pretend they were normal. The things the Dursleys would disapprove of. Dumbledore knew. He could tell him.

"I can make things happen if I want to," said Harry, slowly. Instantly, he knew he'd said the wrong thing.

There was a new tension, an inflexibility to Dumbledore's too controlled recline into the chair.

"I can make myself feel 'fresh' if I want to. When I'm studying and get tired, or when I'm running and get fatigued or hurt. I can make it go away if I try. And when I was really young all kinds of strange stuff happened." Dumbledore's eyes met Harry's own.

"What else can you do?"

He could make people feel things they didn't want to. Make them calm or happy when they were angry or sad. For a period of 4 or 5 months living with the Dursleys had been very, very easy and very, very hard. His heart sunk in chest.

"That's it." He lied.

Dumbledore turned from Harry to look at the double doors leading to the dining room. He drank his tea.

The atmosphere wasn't exactly uncomfortable and Dumbledore's manner, while suddenly less engaging, was not exactly cold. He seemed absent.

Harry was alone with a stranger, and while the silence was perhaps safer than pushing onward Harry needed to find out why this headmaster had come for him after so long.

"Professor Dumbledore, you said you're here to take me back, but -"

"Ahhh, yes. The invitation. I always carry a spare in case of calamity or younger siblings." He reached into the breast of his red coat and this time withdrew a thick envelope.

It was addressed to Harry and he'd seen one like it once before. It did not take him long to read.

"I can't join your school in September, I'm in the middle of sixth form," said Harry. Incredulous, he reread the letter twice more.

"Rash words may lead to rash decisions," said Dumbledore, "The choice is, of course, yours, Harry. But let me show you today the world your parents belonged to. Let me plead the case of my school. Let me, if it is not too bold, tell you your own history. The choice is yours Harry, but let it be an informed choice."

Harry looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was quarter to eight in the morning. The house was deathly silent. Had Vernon woken up, what was Petunia doing?

"I don't think the Dursleys would be keen for a trip anywhere with us today. Though, that's probably an incentive. Sorry, maybe we should just talk today, I've got months yet."

"I would be happy to answer anything you might ask, Harry. I still consider myself a teacher but, I fear, we should encounter a snag on that course," said Dumbledore.

"What's that?" He asked.

"Today, Harry, you believe you may be being tricked but tomorrow you would be certain." Harry screwed up his face in that grimace you give when you accept you've lost but don't want to make it too easy.

"The Dursleys won't be any happier if I leave with you and take it all seriously."

"I rather imagine Harry, it will be easier on all involved if we remove ourselves for a few hours. It will certainly not be any harder, we must strike once the iron cools, to appropriate a phrase."

Harry looked the old professor over once again, in his strange attire, as the man stood.

"We're leaving now, are we? How will we get there, wherever there is?" From upstairs a tremendous crash came, probably from Uncle Vernon's dresser which lay directly above the lounge door.

Dumbledore paid it no mind. He drew himself up and extended an old, open hand,

"I could tell you, Harry, or I could show you." He gave that eyebrow waggle again like a conspirator and Harry made his choice.

* * *

A tightness pressed in on him from all directions crushing his ribs, his skull. He couldn't breathe. His arms were pinned against his sides and he couldn't move, couldn't wiggle even a little bit. A spark of brightness, a lengthening of colours and he felt his knees buckle as he was smashed into the ground. He was aware of a hand releasing his and he fell toward the ground, banging his knees then his fist against brick.

The remedy of cool brick against his cheek was disturbed by an instant's warning. There came the unmistakable rising of vomit and he rolled onto all fours to spray a watery mix of nothing all over the ground before sucking in deep, gasping breaths of air.

In an instant the vomit and the nausea were gone, utterly gone. He looked up and Dumbledore's blue eyes were twinkling down at him as he tucked his wand back into his sleeve.

"Yes, it is quite exciting isn't it? Ah, I remember my first apparition. My father was taking me to meet Emma Albini - I had all her sheets at that time - whom he supposed I had quite apotheosised as a muse in witchly form. Well, to cut to the chase, I suffered such excitation from the journey that I quite covered Bathilda Bagshot's kneazle despite my best efforts. Alas, the poor chap could never stand my company again.

"But still, it was certainly no worse than my first use of an international portkey." Dumbledore clasped his hands together in front of himself and smiled at Harry. Harry was beginning to understand that Dumbledore was not one to rush a conversation or explanation. The twinkling eyes and wry smile made him appear privy to a great cosmic joke to which he was earnestly looking forward to your catching up. For Harry, however, everything felt more urgent.

"Headmaster Dumbledore, where are we?" He asked.

"Albus or Professor Dumbledore, please, you are not my student yet. To answer your question you are in the Leaky Cauldron's beer garden, off Charing Cross road, London," he raised a hand to forestall Harry's next question, "I try not to drink before noon, we are here for another reason. For a welcome to the wizarding world I can think of few places more suited. Observe."

His wand was back in his hand as quick as thought, he prodded the wall and with a great _krrscch_ bricks began to move and turn to form a grand archway. It was amazing but quite in keeping with his experience of magic and doors so far.

No, what made Harry's jaw drop was the view beyond. It was like stepping back in time, and stepping across to somewhere altogether more strange.

A long cobbled alley led away to a corner where it curved behind an old, tall thatch building and was lost. The alley was hemmed by anachronistic buildings, squished together like sardines and in between was awash with a river of pointy, colourful hats. Closest to him he could see that cloaks and robes were the order of the day, some short, some long, some glittering, some grubby.

The silence of the beer garden was overcome by the flow of a thousand conversations, and whizzes and cracks and bangs.

Dumbledore was watching him.

"Incredible," Harry gave weakly.

"May I?" Dumbledore was gesturing at his pyjamas and bare feet. He nodded. Dumbledore flicked his wand and Harry felt something, like he'd been hit by a cobweb for the tiniest instant. His clothes stretched and pulled and changed and he was stood in a three piece brown woolen suit.

"Incredible," Harry gave weakly. "No cloak?"

"Seventeen sickles are better than a galleon, or, that is to say, let us walk before we run. Are you ready, shall we cross this ferocious portal together?"

Harry followed the headmaster into the alley and was swept along in his wake. Following Dumbledore was an experience. As he walked through the crowd they moved around the professor like fish around a whale. For his part, he seemed to know practically every other person they passed.

He never stopped walking, or even slowed his pace, but every witch or wizard they spoke to seemed as happy as if they'd had a lengthy conversation with the man. Harry was not excluded from this as Dumbledore politely included him each time - _And how is young master Patterkwill? Excellent, may I introduce Harry Potter?_ \- Every quick conversation was finished with a handshake until he felt like he was swinging his way up the alley from hand to hand. Following Dumbledore he almost felt famous himself.

Harry could begin to see that, underneath the unusual clothes and in front of the unusual scenes, the people he was speaking to were quite real. Here was a scouse, there a manc, and here a fellow from the home counties. Without really meaning to, he began to accept magic into his life.

When Dumbledore stopped Harry found himself in front of a small shabby shop.

"Here we are Harry, shall we go in?" Dumbledore said.

Above the door in peeling golden letters was _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._ and inside was no better. The narrow shop was hemmed in by thousands of boxes and in one corner was a spindly chair and a selection of magazines. On this side of the window Harry could see there was, on display, a single wand on a threadbare purple cushion.

Apart from themselves, the shop was empty.

Dumbledore moved to the far corner and began investigating the chair.

"Do you think this rocks by design or habit, Harry?" He asked.

"I don't know, Professor," answered Harry truthfully. Dumbledore was picking up a magazine - _The Alembic Retort_ \- and seemed perfectly content to sit there.

"Professor, why are we in a wand shop? It's just, I haven't decided I'll be coming to your school. In fact, it still seems quite a difficult thing to imagine and I don't want to be rude or anything . . ." Dumbledore looked up at him.

"You will have a wand Harry, certainly, and quite independently of whether you decide to attend Hogwarts. I must admit however that it was my intention to help you procure the items on your supply list while - if you will forgive me the conceit - you have an expert eye to assist you. On the optimistic chance I may convince you yet."

Harry looked at the brown shoes on his feet, the old, familiar shame settling on him in this new world.

"It's just that, sir, even if I wasn't in this suit of pyjamas . . ."

"Go on, Harry," said Dumbledore.

"I don't have any money. I can't buy things like this." Harry's fists were clenched. This magical world was going to be snatched away from him, because he couldn't _afford_ it. The injustice of it, the misery of the Dursleys, made his eyes prick; that his choice should be made for him was unbearable and all of Harry's effort went toward focusing on a spider climbing across the top of the shop window.

"My dear boy, I have made quite a mistake and I have ruined what should have been one of the happiest events of your adult life." Harry chanced a glance and saw Dumbledore was looking up at him, not unkindly. Held between his index finger and thumb was a black key, perhaps an inch long.

"You have suffered many things but not, I believe, destitution. You must forgive me Harry, this is the key to a bank vault at the end of this alley in which your parents placed your inheritance. It has been in my keeping these last sixteen years and I am pleased to return it to you."

Harry took the key in wonder. It was the first concrete proof of his parent's existence that he had ever held and he treated it like it might vanish if he took his eyes off it for a second.

"Harry, I had planned to pay here, on your behalf, for which you could repay me at your convenience. However, if that would make you uncomfortable, you need only say and we will amend our plans," said Dumbledore.

Harry didn't really have to think about it. He felt a deep discomfort at other people paying for him and being a stranger in a strange land didn't alter that at all. He'd rather go and find what had been left to him by his parents and return for a wand later. Who knew, perhaps he'd find they'd left him something more personal than money, too.

"I wouldn't want to put you out Professor. If we're getting these things for me, I'd really feel more comforta-"

"My, my, _Harry Potter_ , I wondered when I would be seeing you in here, it seems only yesterday I was -"

"Garrick, would you mind awfully giving us the room. I am afraid you have caught us in the middle of a discussion."

There, behind the desk, was a small man in a cravat with a puff of white hair sticking out from his head like a dandelion. He had rheumy blue eyes that goggled at Dumbledore.

"Oh, Albus. Yes, I er-, yes. There's just something in the back I should be attending to."

"Forgive him," Dumbledore set his magazine down on his lap, "He has a flair for the dramatic. What would you like to do, Harry?"

It seemed rude to the poor shopkeeper to drag him out then leave, and if Harry could afford it then he would have to accept that he could be in a man's debt for a couple of minutes.

"There's no point coming back twice, I'll owe you," said Harry. After a moment he added, "And those in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, Professor."

Dumbledore opened his magazine and held it right in front of his nose.

"I prefer to think of it as a flair for the eccentric, my boy. And you can come out from behind that stack, Garrick."

A couple of minutes proved to be overly optimistic. First, Garrick Ollivander measured him with a tape and peppered him with questions. They can't have done much good though because the next half an hour were filled with dozens of wand. He introduced each with a short description - _Hawthorn and dragon heart-string, 10 and ¼ inches. Tenacious_ \- and then invited Harry to give it a swish, or a flick or a jab. He didn't always make it that far before it was snatched from his hand.

Harry was certain that Dumbledore was laughing at him but whenever Harry turned to look he appeared engrossed in his magazine. It would have been more convincing, however, had he ever turned the page.

Harry was beginning to feel like a disappointment when Ollivander came back slowly with a particular wand ' _I wonder, I wonder_ '. He held it out and as soon as Harry held it he knew he had found the right one.

He gave a swish and a spray of golden sparks shot forth rebounding off the shop's wall and fizzling into nothing.

"Bravo, Harry." Dumbledore clapped and Ollivander joined in.

"Eleven inches. Holly with a phoenix feather core and supple. Oh yes, quite, quite supple. But how curious. How very, very curious." Ollivander said.

"What's curious? Is something wrong?" He asked.

"Wrong? No, nothing is wrong at all. The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. The wand chooses the wizard. As for curious, I shall let Albus answer _that_." Harry turned to Dumbledore, quizzical. A look had passed between the wandmaker and the professor and Harry couldn't figure out the meaning.

"I imagine Garrick is referring to the fact that your wand's core comes from a phoenix to whom I owe a great debt. Anything else, must I fear wait until a more opportune moment - we have practical matters to attend to first. To which end, Garrick, how much for this fine tool?"

Ollivander was slow to take his eyes off Dumbledore and went to the till to ring up the wand for 52 galleons and 2 sickles.

"My, my, so dear?" said Dumbledore. Ollivander commiserated with the elderly wizard at the price while Harry goggled at the transfer of gold and silver. He hadn't realised at Dumbledore's earlier idiom that wizards and witches might have their own currency.

The discovery led to a host of questions and as they left Ollivander's Harry did his best to ask them.

* * *

"So, Voldemort killed my parents and, ever since, anyone who followed him or was generally well-disposed towards the guy has been out to do me in?"

They were sat at one of the public tables of the Leaky Cauldron. The table was a dark wood, covered in ring stains from a history of strange drinks and was lit by a red tallow candle.

"Or raise you in his place, but yes. That is indeed the general thrust of it," said Dumbledore, "You have a gift for the concise. From a great tragedy came a miracle- You. And although many of us have theories there can be no authoritative account."

Dumbledore's explanation certainly rang true with the current atmosphere in the pub. Even now, after the handshakes and questions on his initial entrance, a crowd filled the pub beyond the boundary of the professor's subtle magic. While their voices were softened it did nothing to hide the obvious staring and occasional cheerfully optimistic wave.

Still, it had yet to hit him personally. The death of Lily and James Po - No, the death of his _mum and dad_ was ancient history. This new account didn't quite feel real, even on top of the events of the day.

Ollivanders had been followed by the grand, white pillars of Gringotts. His vault had been stuffed with gold, silver and bronze but had contained nothing more valuable. Learning the Potters had left him something, had had time to plan, Harry had hoped for a letter or a picture or some heirloom worthy of a vault. Then again, when they died they had only been five years older than Harry was now. Dumbledore said the magic that had taken their lives had destroyed their home, had destroyed everything but him.

Discovering he was morbidly famous as well as magical was only a little more incredulous. And it turned out the truth was soon to set him free.

"But, regardless of how it happened, it's because of that and the people who might want to hurt me that I'm stuck at the Dursleys?"

"The protection you gained from residing with the Dursleys was perhaps not equal to the harm they have inflicted on you, but yes, that's why you _were_ 'stuck' at the Dursleys," said Dumbledore.

The Dursleys had been neglectful, cruel and bigoted. He had spent his childhood dreaming of rescue by distant relations and his teenage years working toward a more mundane escape. He had never understood, deep down, why they hadn't loved him like they did Dudley. Harry had always known Aunt Petunia bitterly resented his mother because of some oppression she'd suffered from being her sister as they grew up. Now, seeing the magical world and knowing that she'd seen it too, many years ago. . .

Aunt Petunia had always been envy and anything she envied but couldn't have she despised. Understanding this didn't make him angry though perhaps it should have. If anything, Harry pitied her. Resenting her sister had bundled her up until it was in everything she was.

"And from my birthday onward, I'm unstuck?"

"I would go so far as to suggest you will be actively loosed."

"Ahh, right," Harry traced one of the table's ring stains with a finger, "I'll be surprised if they even let me stay till then."

"I will speak to them before I leave you, Harry," Dumbledore stated firmly.

"So what does this mean for me? If this protection was the only thing that kept me safe it doesn't seem like I can go back to school. My school, I mean, not yours."

"There are arrangements that can be made, you would have to learn magic with minimal instruction and you could not live by yourself or with a muggle family. But Harry, trust me when I say, I would do everything in my power not to let circumstance impel you. It is our choices that define us, Harry, and I will not take one from you again."

Dumbledore was stung, or doing a very good impression of stung, at the 'poor turn' he had done to Harry. The hours in the alley had allowed Dumbledore to investigate Harry's childhood - Harry did his best to emphasise how mildly unhappy the last few years had been compared to earlier years, and he _never_ talked about the Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs - but Dumbledore's frowns and the wave that ran through his beard whenever he shook his head showed the old man's ability to look behind the words and get a firm grasp on the things he wasn't saying.

"And after that . . . if I joined the RAF like I'm supposed to do. There's not much they could do to stop a wizard entering the camp, is there?"

Harry knew that there wasn't. They'd spoke about more things in the last few hours than just the Dursleys.

The amazing goblins and minecarts of Gringotts had led to an explanation on wizarding history from the professor - _Of course, William and Mary nearly vetoed the whole statute because of an unfortunate incident involving the replacement of a soup spoon with a dessert spoon_ \- in which Harry had learnt about the divorce of the wizarding world from the muggle one. Some particulars had been missed as, sat behind Dumbledore, the man's great beard had frequently whipped into his mouth on the straights.

"We can conjure that bridge when we meet our brothers. I am sure that, between the two of us, there is some fabulous defense waiting to be imagined." Dumbledore's optimism effectively halted the objection, he was determined to let the decision be Harry's but it wasn't a decision Harry could make now. The more time he spent in this world the more feasible it seemed that he could live in it, but reality was waiting for him around the corner, presumably with a short length of lead pipe to dissuade him.

Gringotts had been followed by Scrivenwells, where Harry had learnt that wizards and witches still wrote with quills and inkwells, and then a shop that sold cauldrons and telescopes - which had seemed a bit odd to Harry, taken together.

Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions had come next. While Harry was fitted for school robes and more casual clothes, all self-ironing and self-folding, Dumbledore hummed to himself and admired several vomit-yellow thick cotton items.

Harry was still viewing the robes as a 'just-in-case' purchase, but the process had allowed Dumbledore to discuss the structure and nature of the school with Harry, - ' _Of all the changes that have resulted from our admission of adult students however, the addition of Hippocras at dinner has been my great favourite. As Headmaster the sequelae of introducing alcohol to Hogwarts has not affected me quite as much as my heads of house_ '.

Dumbledore described changes that had occurred for many reasons, but discovering he was the precipitating factor for something that was still making waves almost two decades later, well, at this point, it was just one more thing. The third of four, so to speak,

". . . 'when we meet our brothers'. And I have his brother-wand. That's quite coincidental, isn't it?"

Harry's left hand was resting on the handle of the wand that stuck out from the book bag beside him. So new, the warmth of the wand's magic still filled him at the contact.

Madam Malkin's had been followed by Flourish and Blott's Esteemed Book Sellers and it was here that he saw Dumbledore in his element. The man was a font of knowledge - ' _Ahh and here we have Gosforth's Magic in Our Times. An excellent beginning on Internalisation but once she moves onto Charm Theory she rather loses - Ah! My word! Wonders of the Universe, by Sadal Melik. This was the first astronomy text I ever purchased for myself, observe the movement of his illustrations, hand-drawn you know . . ._ '

They had spent a great while in that particular shop and Harry ended up with over a dozen textbooks on the things with which Dumbledore had got most carried away. In fact, they had only stopped when Harry's stomach had given an audible growl and Dumbledore realised he had stolen the young man away without breakfast.

In the Leaky Cauldron, after they had been able to get a seat and a bit of privacy, the very first thing Dumbledore had explained was the relationship between Harry's wand and Voldemort's.

"I am afraid, Harry, that in the wizarding world coincidence is a slippery quarry. Turning seventeen, lightning-bolt scars and brother wands. Sometimes things are entirely symbolic and quite, quite substantive," Dumbledore's blue eyes were fixed on Harry's.

"I see," said Harry. "In fact, no, no. I don't see. Are you saying that I'm destined to become him, to take his place like they want?"

"Certainly not." Dumbledore's face was craggy, his crooked nose casting odd shadows from the flickering light of the candle. "I am saying Harry, most emphatically, that our choices define us and you are on the brink of a very large _choice_."

"I see," said Harry.

Harry wasn't satisfied but was unable to continue as Tom the barman was limping his way towards the table, the two hot plates of toad in the hole dribbling gravy over the far edges, and the moment was gone.

"So witches and wizards share completely different dormitories, do they?"

* * *

Returning from the beer garden had not been so bad as getting there. Harry had bent his knees, kept his back straight and raised his head up for a lomg breath out. It probably hadn't helped a jot but he managed to keep his lunch down.

Dumbledore hadn't taken them back into Number Four, instead they looked to be somewhere along Wisteria Walk, near Mrs. Figg's house.

"Why not pop back into the house?" Harry asked. Dumbledore was setting a brisk pace with his long stride and Harry hurried to catch up.

"I thought you might appreciate the walk." Dumbledore said no more, he held himself tall and led the way.

Harry was looking around at the tidy lawns of Little Whinging. He was home. The familiarity of his surroundings didn't comfort him and it didn't make him happy. It wasn't long before Number Four, Privet Drive came into sight on the far right of the road - Dumbledore's pace didn't slow in the slightest but Harry found he wanted nothing more than to dawdle.

Dumbledore stopped on the front step. He turned back to look at Harry, reaching out and squeezing him on the shoulder but saying nothing.

The Dursleys did not respond to his sharp knock this time.

"They won't come, you know. They'll have been watching from the front bay window and locked the door again."

Dumbledore gave a deep sigh at the door of Number Four. In the alley the professor had been serious, eccentric, enthusiastic, didactic but, most of all, energetic. Harry couldn't pretend he knew this man after half a day but he'd like to pretend he had a good feel for people, and this was something he had seen before. The Dursleys tended to inspire this effect in those not from the extremely immediate area.

"Nobody's ever accused them of being quick. If it helps they'll probably be as surprised as they were the first time."

"Thank you, Harry." Dumbledore didn't even test the handle. The door flared green and opened and Dumbledore strode into the hallway, a returning conqueror. "I have returned your nephew," he announced, "No doubt, you have been wondering where he has been and awaiting his return with many questions."

Harry followed him in to see the corridor empty of Dursleys and Dumbledore opening the white door to the living room.

"He has been quite safe today, he has been under my guardianship."

It, too, was empty of Dursleys. As Harry entered, Dumbledore was bursting through the double doors to the dining room and turning toward the kitchen.

"I hope I have not arrived at an inconvenient moment," said Dumbledore.

The Dursleys were huddled in the kitchen. Dudley, twice the size of Aunt Petunia, was being held behind his mother and his eyes were wide as he looked at Dumbledore.

"Tea?" squeaked Aunt Petunia. In contrast to her pale face Vernon's was that familiar mottled puce.

"INCONVENIENT! INCONVENIENT! NOW, LISTEN HERE-" He shouted.

"I am listening. Trust me, Vernon, when I say am listening. I have spent my day _listening_." Dumbledore spoke softly and Harry could only see his back, but his words had an incredible effect on Vernon, the colour draining from his face as he sat back onto his stool.

"Ah, it appears to have slipped your mind. Let me continue then. In our last correspondence, I explicitly stated Harry must remain with the last members of his family until his seventeenth birthday, for the benefit and safety of you both. This is still the case.

"I have complete faith that this morning of reflection has helped you realise a wish for these last two weeks to be considerably more pleasant for Harry than all the time before. I do not believe you wish to lose my admiration by distressing a young man as he prepares to leave his childhood home." It didn't sound like a question, it didn't, in fact, appear to be a question, but Vernon was shaking his fat face from side to side.

"Excellent. An amicable resolution is always preferable to the _alternative_. Now that is all settled, I would hate to intrude" said Dumbledore, "Harry would you mind showing me to the door?"

Harry followed Dumbledore out through the kitchen door, his eyes trailing across the Dursleys in the far corner of the kitchen as he passed them.

The professor was waiting for him on the front door step and as he joined him Dumbledore pulled the door to.

"I suspect they view me as something of an authority, even with all this," Dumbledore gestured at all of himself.

"Harry, my boy, I feel like I am taking a great liberty leaving you here, once again."

"Don't worry, Professor. If they can ignore me today they'll be back to normal tomorrow."

"Yes, though that is perhaps not as comforting as you intended. I have been amazed by your forbearance and your fortitude today Harry, discord and enmity was your lot and you have fought it splendidly with levity and hope.

"I will not maroon you here again, Harry. Should you wish not to remain here for even two weeks more you can contact me through Arabella Figg, or leave for the Leaky Cauldron and Tom will inform me."

"Mrs. Figg?" Harry exclaimed. Dumbledore smiled at him in answer.

"She is more pleasant than she has pretended all this time, but I am afraid that the smell of cat is quite genuine. "

Harry laughed.

"Well, Harry, I must take my leave, give my regards to your Aunt and Uncle. Unless you have changed your mind and no longer wish to remain here?"

"Today was amazing, Professor, but I need a few days," said Harry.

Dumbledore reached up for a hat that was not there then, instead, gave a deep bow, his beard brushing against the little chips of stone on the front path.

"Until we meet again, Harry," said Dumbledore.

"Good bye, Professor Dumbledore," said Harry. Then Dumbledore was striding away, mindless of the twitching net curtains of Privet Drive. Harry followed him until the headmaster turned off then went back inside.

"He's gone!" Harry shouted, kicking the door shut behind him. He still had all his bags in each hand and he set them down now, next to the umbrella stand.

The Dursleys were still in the kitchen, now a bit more animated than when Dumbledore had been with them. Harry went for his stool next to the fruit bowl and picked an apple. He took a deep bite, a Granny Smith's, it was sweet and not at all bitter.

Harry looked up at Vernon, whose whiskery moustache was twitching at him in an agony of conflicting emotions.

"So," Harry laughed, "How was your morning?"

* * *

A/N - let me know what you think. I'd be happy to hear any criticisms, what worked for you, what didn't.


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